


The Instant And All That Came After

by claro



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accident, Angst, Disfigurement, Eventual Johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-01 11:49:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 8,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6517492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claro/pseuds/claro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has an accident with devastating consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This came into my head when I was so sick with a virus a month or so ago, and I've been itching to write it since. It's a little angsty, but I've tried not to lay it on too thick. That said PLEASE heed the triggers. And if any of you want to check out my blog where I talk about writing, art and fandom have a look at [ClaireWritesWords](www.clairewriteswords.wordpress.com) Love you all, c XX

A single instant. That was how fast everything changed.

Sherlock, huffing out a breath at John's complaint about the milk. John struggling to reach the mugs from the top shelf where Sherlock had placed them just to annoy him. Sherlock glancing over his shoulder at John to gauge if he was really angry.

Stupid milk.

That stupid fucking milk was the only reason Sherlock was still alive.

Because the milk was off, John was angry. And because John was angry Sherlock had leaned back in his stool to look across at John.

Instead of just inches away from the canister he was working with as he had been while making his notes.

It was why he was sitting in a hospital waiting room waiting to go back in to see him just as soon as his parents had left. It was why Mycroft was pale and drawn, talking in rapid, hushed tones on his mobile. It was why Lestrade turned up looking apologetic as he asked official questions. It was why the flat had been closed off and John had no idea where he was going to stay.

But none of that mattered.

He got another coffee from the machine, more for something to do for a few minutes than anything else, and then he sat back down to wait. Wait until he could go and see Sherlock. Wait until Sherlock was able to come home. Wait until their lives could go back to normal. 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

One day into another. At first John counted the hours with something like frustration. And then, as those hours started to add to a sum that worried him, he started to count the minutes instead. But now each minute ticked off was not a mark of impatience, but instead a silent relief that another minute had passed and everything was still the same.

John's world had shrunk to a grey room and an endless supply of bad coffee and half finished sandwiches.

He heard all the words and explanations, but he understood nothing. He couldn't relate the description of the injured man in the bed to the man who leapt across rooftops in the rain and played his violin at three am.

There were hushed conversations and assurances exchanged that none of them really believed. Words said for the sake of saying them. Reassurances and attempts positive thinking that just ended in silence.

And all the while Sherlock slept on.

John knew the function of every tube and wire. He knew that the ventilator was helping to take the pressure off Sherlock's body, and he knew the IV lines attached to Sherlock's pale and scarred arms were providing him with the things he needed. Fluids, sedatives, antibiotics, analgesics his medical mind provided automatically.  He knew the exact nutritional content of the liquid that passed thought the nasal tube to Sherlock's stomach, and he knew that under the pristine covers was a catheter. He knew that underneath the dressings that covered Sherlock's face, neck, hands and one arm, that pale skin was healing.

 

He knew that the drugs that were coursing through his fragile body kept him from waking.

But he wanted him to.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock came home with no fanfare. The plan had originally been to take him back to the peace of his parents house to rest and recover. But of course Sherlock was never going to go along with that plan. Eventually Mycroft had been forced to arrange for him to be able to return to Baker Street, which was more complicated than it first seemed and required several days of planning before they even attempted it. Sherlock was still almost completely immobile, the drugs keeping him weak and sleepy, which was likely the only reason he hadn't vanished into the night already.

John was apprehensive about his return, and selfishly he wondered if he was expected to take care of his friend. But immediately he dismissed that treacherous thought, remembering how he had felt sitting beside Sherlock's bed, and all the things he silently promised to a God he didn't believe in. Mycroft was, as always, one step ahead of him and informed him casually that he had arranged for a nurse to visit Sherlock at the flat to deal with his medications and change his dressings and catheter.

'Good luck with that,' John muttered, but a tiny part of him was amused that Mycroft actually thought Sherlock was going to let anyone near enough to him to even see his catheter, never mind provide the necessary care and attention.

In anticipation of his arrival, John had returned to Baker Street armed with a bag full of cleaning supplies and a sense of determination that was quickly quashed as soon as he set foot into the kitchen, which was still littered with glass. The police and environmental health had finally finished with the flat, although Lestrade had taken John to one side and given him a quiet heads up that some of his counterparts wanted to talk to Sherlock about the chlorine bomb he seemed to have made in his kitchen, no matter how accidentally.

After looking around him hopelessly for a full ten minutes, trying to work out where to even start, John gave in and called in a team of industrial cleaners and a decorator.

And because he wasn't completely soft, he used Sherlock's card.

The following day he went down to warn Mrs Hudson, who managed to look both worried and angry at the same time. She complained about the noise coming from upstairs, and all the people who had been stamping up and down her stairs, but without waiting for an answer she immediately launched into a series of questions about Sherlock. 

'It might be best if he was left alone for a while when he comes back,' John said, trying to be diplomatic, 'You know how he gets, and if people are making a fuss he'll feel threatened and just want to shut himself in his room.'

'And you?'

'Well, I live there,' John frowned, 'He can't do much about that. Besides, he's never been shy around me before.'

'But now?' Mrs Hudson pressed, lowering her voice as if Sherlock could hear her from halfway across London, 'You know, with all this?' and she made a circular gesture around her face.

John clenched his jaw so hard it hurt, and he had to force himself to stay calm as he spoke again.

The truth was, it was a subject they had all been avoiding talking about. Since Sherlock had been conscious no one except his doctors had seen what was under the dressings, and John was increasingly apprehensive about that. Not because of what it looked like, because quite honestly no matter how bad, it could never be worse than it looked when he was holding Sherlock up waiting for the ambulance.

Instead he was worried about what it meant for Sherlock. He had honestly been surprised when Sherlock had motioned for John to leave the room. He'd never done that before except when in a sulk over something minor when it didn't matter to either of them. This though, this was clearly different.

'I honestly don't know,' John admitted.

 


	4. Chapter 4

The nurses never lasted long. Either Sherlock refused to see them, or sent them away in tears. He only allowed them to tend to his dressings when he could no longer put it off. John would have offered, but every time he opened his mouth to speak to Sherlock, the man disappeared from the room, and a closed bedroom door remained between them.

The doctor in him said that Sherlock needed time and space, but the friend in him couldn't bear the silence. There was no shouting, no loud experiments in the kitchen or soft violin music late at night. There was just...nothing.

Sherlock shut everyone out, but for reason John had believed that he would be the exception. Just like he had always been the exception. He had believed that Sherlock would let him into his pain and grief and recovery. But he didn't. He shut the door, literally, in John's face.

Weeks went by like that. John left food for Sherlock. Sometimes on a tray outside his door, and sometimes in the microwave which was, for once, completely free of foreign substances. John never thought he would wish for dead mice in the microwave. And the flat was too clean. Without Sherlock moving through it like a tornado, wrecking havoc in his wake, there was nothing to disrupt the order John imposed on the flat. The daily war over the space no longer existed, and as a result the flat felt too clean, too sterile.

John stopped cleaning.

Mycroft came and ignored the closed door, letting himself into Sherlock's room. For once there was no shouting, even though John was braced for it. Mycroft left an hour later with nothing but a nod to John. Sherlock's parents came once, but Sherlock refused to see them. He wouldn't even speak to acknowledge their presence. John had lost his temper then and shouted at him through the door.

'I swear I will kick this down, Sherlock!'

A pale hand rested on his arm and he was led away by Sherlock's mother, who just smiled at him and told him they would come again another time.

'When he's feeling a bit better.'

John had stared at her open mouthed, but the elderly woman had considering him with a knowing look, as if appraising him, and then a sad smile, and John suddenly realised that she knew Sherlock better than he thought.

That night, long after the flat had grown silent and the street outside was dark, John found himself sitting on the floor in the hall outside Sherlock's room, his back to the wall. He didn't say anything for a long time, and there were no sounds from inside the room, but John knew that Sherlock was aware of his presence, and some part of John understood with absolute certainty that it was important for him to just  _be there._

So he was.


	5. Chapter 5

It took John a while to notice, but when he did he couldn't understand why it had taken him so long. It was small things, things he wouldn't have noticed before. It started with the various pieces of equipment of Sherlock's that had littered the flat since the day they had moved in. After the accident the kitchen had been stripped by first the police and environmental health, and then further by the cleaning crew who had been visibly shocked by some of the less savoury items stored in the kitchen.

But then he started to notice other items missing, the stack of petri dishes that lived under the sink, the scalpels that Sherlock tended to toss into the cutlery drawer which had been the cause of more than one trip to A and E when one of them was rummaging for a butterknife. Mycroft had quietly removed some equipment with little more than a nod in John's direction, and to be honest, John was too exhausted to question him about it.

It wasn't until he found half of their mugs smashed in sink that John really started to take stock of what was going on in the flat. What started as a quiet puzzlement because an obsession as John stalked around the flat, examining every surface and space as he took stock of the changes he hadn't even noticed happening. When had the light chord in the bathroom obtained such a large pull? And when was the last time he had found any of Sherlock's clothes in the laundry?

It took all evening and most of the night before John heard any sign of life coming from Sherlock's room. He had learned over the last weeks that knocking on the door was pointless. Sherlock moved through the flat like a ghost, and most days John was only aware he still lived there when he came across an unwashed cup or books stacked where they had not been before.

The door to Sherlock's room opened quietly, a light tread in the hall that stopped when the walker realised the lamp was still on in the living room.

'Sherlock?'

There was no response other than retreating steps and the soft click of a bedroom door being locked again.

With a sigh John set about making some food for Sherlock, knowing that the other man would not make it for himself. He arranged it carefully on a tray and set it on the floor outside Sherlock's room, as had become their ritual.

He knocked the door, even though he knew Sherlock would not open it.

'I'm going to bed, Sherlock,' he said quietly, 'I made you some sandwiches.'

John waited almost a full minute for some kind of response, but the man on the other side of the door remained silent, and eventually John gave up and moved away again. As he moved through the flat ensuring lights were turned off, he cast his eye over the crowded bookcase, where John's cheap paperbacks competed for space with Sherlock's eccelctic assortment of textbooks and random trinkets he'd collected over the years. His eyes fell on the violin case which was still resting against Sherlock's chair. A thin film of dust had accumulated on the case, and it was clear that it had not been touched in many weeks. Gone were the long evening spent listening to the sounds of Sherlock's music drifiting up the narrow staircase, and it wasn't until that moment that John realised how much he missed that sound. On a whim he gently lifted the instrument and carried it down the hall where he lay it gently beside the tray of food, hoping it would be the thing that would finally provoke some sort of reaction out of Sherlock. John would give anything to hear Sherlock playing again.

An hour later, as John lay in the dark of his own room, there was a roar from downstairs. Before he could even make to the stairs there was the crash of a plate hitting the wall. The sounds carried on as John raced down the stairs. He tried the handle to Sherlock's room, knocking on the door and calling the man's name.

There was no response except the thud of something being overturned.

Sherlock raged for the rest of the night, the sounds of breaking glass and smashed furniture loud in the night.

When morning came it found Mycroft at Baker Street, silent in his movements as he carefully packed the violin case into a lined box and removed it to his car. As he left he cast his gaze over John, his ice narrowed and critical, and then he was gone, leaving John alone in the middle of the flat, wondering what to do next.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so so sorry this has been delayed. It's almost finished, I think one more chapter after this maybe. Thanks for all who are still reading this.

John was living with a ghost.

As the days, and then weeks passed, that thought sat more heavily on his chest. He hadn't even seen Sherlock since he came back, and at times he was certain that Sherlock didn't exist at all, that he was just something John's mind had created to fill a space that otherwise echoed with loneliness. 

But this wasn't his Sherlock.

This wasn't the Sherlock of wild and unpredictable actions, the Sherlock of grace and elegance. This was the dark Sherlock he had only ever glimpsed before, and never like this. This was the Sherlock who spent too long in his own mind, lost in the dark and twisting corridors of his thoughts.

And John just didn't know what to do any more. 

John thought about that as he walked the dark streets of London, night after night, painfully aware that it wasn't the same without Sherlock by his side, and that tiny, selfish part of him was angry with Sherlock over that. If only Sherlock had listened to instructions and actually thought about the consequences of his actions than he'd be there, right now, dragging John headfirst into another adventure, brushing off all of the doctor's feeble attempts at protests.

John missed that. He missed Sherlock with a desperation that was painful.

Climbing the stairs slowly, he paused at the door, actually dreading going into the flat, where he would sit alone, knowing that Sherlock was only feet away, but that there was more than a closed door between them now, and John had no idea how to fix that.

Sherlock had once described that first step towards something you didn't want to do as going into battle, and in many ways he was right. John took a deep breath and pushed open the, typically unlocked, door, his eyes automatically flicking down hall towards Sherlock's bedroom where the tray was still sitting, untouched, on the floor where John had left it. He sighed and moved to collect the tray, and it was only then that he noticed Sherlock's bedroom door was open slightly.

Another step towards the room and he heard it, a quiet sob from the bathroom followed by something heavy being thrown across the tiles.

'Sherlock?'

Inside the bathroom Sherlock dived to close the door, but John was ready for that and he braced his weight against it, pushing through until he was standing in the bathroom, facing Sherlock who refused to look at him.

John took a moment to look around. Lotions and bandages were strewn about the floor and the little that he could see of Sherlock's face was twisted in a scowl.

'The agency won't send another nurse.' It was Sherlock's voice, rough and forced, but it was the first time John had heard it in weeks and his heart lurched.

'Yeah, well, you should probably stop making them cry,' he said, cocking his head meaningfully, before taking the bandage out of Sherlock's hand, 'Sit down.'

'John-'

'Sit.' John gave Sherlock a moment to settle, and, if truth be told, a few seconds to collect himself too, and then, before he could talk himself out of it, he took Sherlock's bandaged hand and unwrapped the dressing. He paused for a split second before removing it completely, already knowing what to expect. It wasn't the first time he'd seen the results of a chemical burn. Some people could get very creative during conflict, but he was still unprepared for the change to Sherlock'a hands. 

The long, elegant fingers were now red, skin stretched across the swollen surface, his hands twisted half closed, thick with scar tissue.

He could feel Sherlock looking at him out of the corner of his eye, but he kept working quietly, gently cleaning the skin before massaging moisturizer. Sherlock flinched when John lifted his hand at first, gently running his fingers across Sherlock's skin before turning the hand over and examining the palm. Neither of them spoke as John worked, but with each passing second Sherlock relaxed more. John's own fingers moved across every part of Sherlock's skin, gently massaging the cream into the spaces between his fingers and around his wrist, unhurried and careful. When he finished, John tilted the treated hand towards the light to check for any areas he had missed, and surprised himself when he pressed his lips the top of Sherlock's fingers.

There was a breathless silence in the bathroom, that hovered on the edge of something, and John wasn't sure what would happen if he let it go on too long. So he did the only think he could. He let go of Sherlock's hand and reached for the other one.

'Let's get that one now,' he said quietly.

Sherlock just nodded.


	7. Chapter 7

It started with small things. Sherlock went to the bathroom and noticed that all the lids had been left open on the shampoo and shower gel, easy for his ruined hands to use. His keys, despite the fact that he hand't left the flat in weeks, were now sporting a large, flat key cover. He frowned at it before taking it to John.

'What is this?'

'Hmm?' John looked up from the paper and then shrugged, 'Oh, I thought it would be easier to handle your keys. I got the idea from Greg, he's got one one on his door key. Although that's mostly so he can work out what key to use when he come home drunk and - hey, where are you going?'

Sherlock leaned against his bedroom door, breathing heavily, the keys still in his hand. He stood there for a long moment until there was a soft knocking on the other side.

'Sherlock?'

At first he didn't move, but John knocked again.

'Let me in.'

For a moment Sherlock hesitated, knowing that if he stood still then John would respect that and leave. But at the same time he wanted John close by. His friend. His conductor of light.

He moved from the door and waited for John to open it.

When the doctor did, he stood very still in the doorway, the light behind him casting his shadow across the floor.

Neither of them spoke for a long moment, John frowned at Sherlock, his dark blue eyes taking in everything. And then he crossed the floor in two strides, stretched up and kissed Sherlock.

As soon as he had done it, John rocked backwards, looking overwhelmed, his eyes a little too bright, his mouth open.

'Sorry...I...No. I'm not sorry.'

John straightened up, almost defiant as he looked at his friend. But there was fear there, barely concealed by his determined expression. Sherlock took a step back, but he had to focus on John, and as he did he could see that the fear wasn't of him....it was  _for_ him.

That knowledge hit him hard and he tried to breathe deeply enough to make a difference.

Then John smiled. That shy, half smile as he looked away. That smile he only ever smiled for Sherlock. And it all made sense.

'Tea?'

Sherlock nodded and made to follow John, but the doctor stopped in the doorway, and then he reached his hand back, lacing his fingers through Sherlock;s, his thumb stroking across the angry red skin. It was just a second, but it was enough.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock has a revelation.

The first time it happened, Sherlock flinched away. But instead of taking offence, John was simply softer with his actions. He seemed to have taken it for granted that he was now allowed to touch Sherlock, to move in his space without worrying, and so he did. A soft squeeze of a shoulder as John set tea down beside Sherlock, and then a soft press of lips against red skin before he carefully rubbed ointment on with slow, firm motions.

At first Sherlock had been confused. He watched John, looking for an explanation. But when John caught his eye he just smiled and then went back to whatever he had been doing.

But John was not soft with him. He bickered with Sherlock over the shopping list, and the electricity bill and Sherlock's rude comments about John's clothes. There was a full on war over the milk which resulted in John throwing the empty carton at Sherlock before storming off like nothing over the last few months had ever happened.

Sherlock had stood there in shock for the briefest of moments rocking as realisation hit him and he smiled.

He reached John just before John opened the front door, and turned him around, pinning him against the wall. John glared up at him, not struggling because he knew it was useless to struggle against Sherlock, who was trained in more methods of hand to hand combat that John could even name. But that glare faded into a frown as he took in Sherlock's expression, his slightly too fast breathing.

'You fought with me,' Sherlock said in that tone he used to explain things to people he thought were simple.

'....yes?'

'Why?'

'Because you're a bit of an arse.'

At that Sherlock flashed a quick smile and released John, who stayed where he was, looking up at his friend. Then he huffed out a breath, shook his head and turned back towards the door.

'Where are you going?' Sherlock couldn't suppress the small note of panic in his voice, and immediately scowled to compensate for that weakness.

'I'm going to get more bloody milk,' John said, and then slammed the door behind him.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock got sick the first week of October. 

He went from tired and warm to a fever and exhaustion overnight. John pushed the detective's curls back so he could look more closely at him.

'Bed,' he said.

Sherlock blinked lazily, 'I'm flattered by your offer but you should-'

'Or I'm calling your mum.'

The taller man glared at him, but behind the eyes John could see that impressive mind whirling away looking for any possible counter offer. It was a look he thought he would never see again on that pale face, and it made him smile despite everything. He folded his arms and leaned against the fridge as Sherlock mentally ran thought every possible scenario. The longer he took the the more outrageous the alternative offer was bound to be, and John couldn't wait to hear it. Although after all these years there was almost nothing Sherlock could say that would have surprised him.

'Come with me.'

Except maybe that.

Before he could respond, Sherlock had already fled the kitchen, and only the grumbled 'Come, John,' affirmed what had just happened.

Slowly John followed Sherlock down the hall to his bedroom where he found the detective standing nervously beside the bed, the surprise evident on his face when John walked in.

He didn't think I would come, John realised, and his heart broke just a little bit more.

'Stop scratching at that,' he said, tapping Sherlock's hand away from his wrist. Then he nodded towards the bed, 'Left or right?'

#

It didn't matter in the end. Sherlock slept face down in the middle, sprawled out star shaped, his usually graceful limbs suddenly awkward and endearing. He had pinned John down under his arm, and John pressed absent minded kisses to the too-hot skin of Sherlock's shoulder and bit his lip to stop himself laughing at the wet snores Sherlock gave in between the soft snuffling that was so painfully childlike.

John pushed the curls back again, so long now they almost brushed his shoulder. Grown, he knew, so Sherlock could hide behind them, but, in John's opinion, completely unnecessary. He brushed them back to expose Sherlock's face. The angry red and scarred skin was just a shadow in the darkness, but John traced it with his fingertips. 

At the feeling of cool hands on his skin Sherlock woke, opening his eyes slowly, blinking across the pillow at John.

'You need a haircut,' John whispered.

But the real meaning of his words hung in the silence between them until Sherlock closed his eyes, once more succumbing to sleep.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

Mycroft realised at the start of November.

John came home from work to find Sherlock and Mycroft sitting opposite each other in front of the fire, the remains of tea on the small table. Mycroft turned and treated John to a lazy smile, his stormy eyes widening slightly as his powerful mind made the correct deductions. John nodded to him and carried on through to the kitchen where he began to unpack the few groceries he had picked up on the way home.

None of them spoke about it, and John certainly didn't feel the need to hear whether Mycroft approved or not.

That night he kissed Sherlock gently on the temple as the detective poured over a notebook and turned for his own room. He was stopped when Sherlock called his name. John barely had a second to turn around before Sherlock was beside him. He loomed over John and for a moment his pale eyes narrowed in uncertainty, and then his lips were pressing against John's.

Sherlock never initiated contact, so John was frozen in surprise at first. But then, just as his hands crept up Sherlock's arms and back to thread into his hair, Sherlock stepped away again. He nodded sharply to John and then went back to the table and his notes.

John was still smiling when he turned the bedroom light off twenty minutes later.

#

John woke to the press of a warm body against his back and he sighed happily.

'I know you are awake,' Sherlock's voice came from behind him.

'You know everything,' John said, 'Or think you do.'

'I have a superior mind.'

John rolled over so he was facing Sherlock, half propped up on his elbow, 'I bet you don't know what I'm thinking.'

Before Sherlock could respond, John leaned down and kissed him, taking his time, his free hand cupping Sherlock's face, his thumb tracing his cheekbone. When John shifted his weight to cover more of Sherlock he was surprised to feel the other man's erection pressing against his hip. As if knowing what John was thinking, Sherlock turned away, embarrassed.

'I'm sorry. It just-'

But John had already pulled away the covers and had moved down Sherlock's body, tugging down his pyjama bottoms and taking Sherlock into his mouth in one swift movement.

Afterwards Sherlock looked shocked. Confused about John's actions.

'Why did you do that?' he asked without looking at John.

John pressed a kiss to Sherlock's shoulder, letting his lips linger there for a long moment before he spoke.

'Because I have wanted to do it for years.'

They lapsed into silence as John fell asleep, his arm still possessive across Sherlock's chest.


	11. Chapter 11

John paused before he entered the flat, which was generally a wise idea as he never knew what he was going to find on the other side of the door and it paid to be prepared, but today he had an extra reason to be cautious, and he tried to school his features into blankness so he didn't alarm Sherlock.

It didn't work. As soon as John stepped into the room and smiled at him, Sherlock was on his feet and stalking towards his bedroom.

'No!' he yelled, slamming the door behind him.

John sighed and went to fill the kettle, but before he could even turn the tap on his phone pinged with a text from Lestrade.

'Jesus,' John muttered under his breath, putting the phone back in his pocket without bothered to reply, 'Give me a bloody minute.'

He took his time making two cups of tea and carefully carried them to Sherlock's door.

'Sherlock, I've made tea.'

'I don't want tea.'

'I didn't say I'd made you any.'

The tactic worked and the door opened revealing an annoyed Sherlock, 'Then why bother to inform me-oh.'

John smiled and carefully held out the two handled mug that Sherlock refused to use infront of anyone else. Sherlock wrapped both twisted hands around it and slowly took a sip before pulling a face.

'There's only three sugars in this!'

'You're welcome,' John smiled, turning away and heading towards his armchair with a smile.

He almost expected the door to close again, but after a few second Sherlock moved into the living room again. He didn't go to his armchair, instead he sat at the table where some of his books were stacked and pretended to be absorbed in a thin volume about respiratory diseases in mice until long after they had both finished their tea. 

John waited.

Eventually his patience paid off and Sherlock spoke, although he didn't lift his gaze from the book.

'So what case did Lestrade have?'

'I thought you said no?'

The only response was a stiffening of Sherlock's shoulders and John licked his lips before speaking again.

'You don't have to do it. But...well, you could work on it from here if you're afraid of-'

'I'm not afraid of going outside!' Sherlock snapped, even though they both knew that was a lie.

'That's not what I was going to say,' John said, even though they both knew it was.

There was a pause.

'I think it's time you went back to work.'

Sherlock turned to look at him then, his face a mask of contempt, but John could see the fear that was there too, and the curiosity that was eating Sherlock up.

John smiled.

'It's a nine,' he said.


	12. Chapter 12

John wondered if he was allowed to go back to the flat yet. Pouring over the case notes, Sherlock had only tolerated John's presence for fifteen minutes before he ordered him out of the flat.

'I don't need to go out,' John said, knowing he was winding Sherlock up.

'We need milk.'

'Nope, there's a full jug in the fridge.'

'Bread then.'

'Almost a full loaf.'

Sherlock slammed his hand down on the table, 'Cheese. Oranges-'

'You don't like oranges'

'I don't care if you go out to buy cocaine and whores just leave. The. Flat.'

At that John swallowed down his smile and slowly rose to his feet, enjoying every second of this. He walked over to Sherlock ran a hand through the messy curls, making a mental note to help Sherlock wash them later, and then he pressed a soft kiss to the detective's temple.

'We both know you'd care.'

'Only if you didn't share,' Sherlock replied, his eyes still trained on the papers.

John couldn't help laugh as he went to shrug on his coat, 'I tell you what, if you solve that case before I get home there will be a trifle and a blowjob in it for you.'

'I don't require a- oh!'

John was halfway down the stairs before he heard Sherlock call out again.

'Not a sherry one!'

John laughed all the way to the shops.


	13. Chapter 13

'Ready?'

'No.'

John looked up at the tall detective and sighed, 'Really?'

'Of course I'm ready, John!' 

And so John opened the front door and followed Sherlock to the cab.

Sherlock sat very still, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his coat, his too-long hair falling over his eyes. John clenched his hands against the urge to reach out and push it back.

Five months. He tried not to count the days. But....five months, four days, eleven hours and.....seven minutes....and counting.

The first person John spotted was Sally Donovan, and he didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

'Morning, Freak.'

Sherlock hesitated for a split second.

'Still sleeping with your subordinates?'

Donovan jutted her chin, 'Still sleeping with your doctor?'

Sherlock smiled, that brief flash of a smile he'd been doing since the accident, 'Yes.'

 


	14. Chapter 14

'Time will not speed up no matter how many times you check your watch.'

Lestrade sighed, 'No, but you might get the hint and shift your arse.'

'I think we all got the hint an hour ago.'

'What hint?' John frowned, and looked between the DI and Sherlock.

'Lestrade has a date.'

'Oh?' John smirked.

'Shut up,' Lestrade warned, but Sherlock was warming to his theme.

'And it's serious if his wardrobe choices are anything to go by. He's wearing a new suit, better cut than his usual choices suggesting he wants to impress someone, someone who is used to a higher standard of living than most of Lestrade's dates.'

'Sherlock!' Lestrade lowered his voice, the warning clear.

'And you can tell it's serious by his watch, clearly a gift as it doesn't fit his usual tastes, but he probably has no idea he's wearing a twenty thousand pound watch to a crime scene.'

'A what?'

'Given the fact that he has failed to mention his current bedfellow, as evident by your expression John, it's obviously someone we know, given how reluctant he is to talk about it until....No!'

Sherlock was on his feet them, eyes wide.

'That is disgusting! You can't. I won't let you!'

And then he was gone, coat fanning out behind him as he practically ran towards the road, hand already in the air to hail a cab.

'What was all that about?' John asked, standing up more slowly than Sherlock had.

'Twenty thousand....what?' Lestrade blinked at the doctor and then waved his hand dismissively, 'Oh, I think he finally realised I'm seeing Mycroft.'

'Oh.' John found himself at a loss, and watched two forensics officers working around the body for a moment before he realised Greg was still watching him, 'For how long?'

'About two years.'

'Oh.'

'Yeah.'

'Well.'

'Yeah.'

'That's...nice.'

Greg sighed again, 'And this is why I didn't tell you.'

'But...you've both been around, at the same time. You were both over for dinner at New Year before...well, before.'

'Yeah, and we had a sneaky shag in your  bathroom when you were shouting at Sherlock over what he did to the desert.' Greg winked at John and sauntered off, leaving John wishing he too could delete information.


	15. Chapter 15

'John, I believe I would like to experience penetrative sex.'

In hindsight it was not the most outlandish thing Sherlock had ever said to him in the back of a cab, but it certainly took John by surprise. The driver narrowly missed a cyclist at the lights and shared a glance over his shoulder at the doctor, not even trying to hide his interest in the conversation.

'Sherlock!'

'It's not that I'm displeased with fellatio but perhaps it's time to experience other aspects of intercourse. What do you think?'

'I think we should talk about this at home.'

Sherlock glanced across at John and frowned.

'You're displeased.'

'I generally don't like my sex life to be talked about in front of strangers.'

'You don't want to penetrate me?'

'Jesus Christ, Sherlock. Can we just talk about this later.'

'I don't mind,' the taxi driver called over his shoulder.

Sherlock's smirk was nothing more than a flash, but John noticed it and shook his head.

'I hate you,' he muttered.

'That's not what you were saying when I sucked you testicles into-'

'Enough! Fuck!'

When they pulled up outside the flat the driver refused to take John's money, instead winking at him.

'Good luck, mate.'

Sherlock was already in the flat by the time John climbed the stairs. He was shrugging off his coat when John kicked the door shut and crossed the floor, forcing Sherlock against the wall. The taller man looked alarmed for a split second, but then that smirk was back again and John growled.

'You always have to push things, don't you?'

Sherlock didn't say anything, but he made no effort to stop John as the doctor unbuttoned his shirt.

John paused then, looking up at him, 'Do you really want to do this?'

Sherlock nodded.

'Are you sure?'

'If Mycroft can do it then-'

'Can we not talk about your brother as I'm taking your clothes off?'

'As you wish.'

John paused, his hand already in the waistband of Sherlock's trousers.

'And you're not to tell him about this later.'

'But-'

'No!' John pointed at him and he could see Sherlock shrinking back, suddenly uncertain.

'You don't want people to know?'

'Sherlock,' John sighed and reached for the detective, 'I would should it from the roof top in a heartbeat, but I just want one thing that's private between us. So...if you're doing this to prove a point then don't. I don't need you to prove anything to me.'

'Do you-'

'Love you? Yeah. I do. And it's about time you realised that.'

Sherlock's eyes couldn't get any wider at John's words and he stared down at the doctor for a long moment, blinking too fast and clearly trying to process what he had just been told.

'I was going to ask if you had any lube.'

John laughed and stretched up to kiss him.

'What would I do without you?'

'Limp.'

 


	16. Chapter 16

'Sherlock?'

'Hmm?'

'Stop pretending to be asleep.'

With a sigh Sherlock rolled over to face John, who frowned at him.

'Are you...are you okay? Was it...?'

'It wasn't what I expected.'

John's heart sank.

'You didn't enjoy it?'

'I...'

'Have you ever done that before?'

'Of course I have!' Sherlock snapped, and then sighed again.

'Sherlock?'

'It wasn't...I didn't expect you to be so...'

'Christ, did I hurt you?'

Sherlock shook his head, 'No. You were...'

'Rough?'

'Gentle.'

There was silence in the room then, until John reached out for Sherlock.

'Tell me,' he whispered.

Sherlock bit his lip and refused to meet John's gaze, 'I...I've never been with someone who was so...it's always been a...a _battle.'_

The silence returned as John processed what Sherlock had said, and then he shifted closer, laying his head against Sherlock's shoulder.

'I'll never hurt you.'

He could feel Sherlock moving his head to look down at him, but he didn't trust himself to look back. Eventually there was the weight of an arm across his shoulders and John sighed, closing his eyes and listening to Sherlock's breathing.


	17. Chapter 17

The first newspaper article appeared in February. A grainy, long distance shot with the caption 'Whatever Happened to Holmes?'

They didn't talk about it. Sherlock just rolled hid eyes when John tried to bring it up.

'People have too much time on their hands.'

But over the coming weeks more and more articles appeared, there was a TV crew outside the door one morning that only left when Mrs Hudson was a bit too liberal with a bucket of water. John kept trying to get Sherlock to talk about it, but the detective instead withdrew more and more into himself.

It finally came to a head one night at dinner. John and Sherlock were seated at their favourite table in Angelo's, one of the few places that still felt safe. Angelo was fiercley protective of Sherlock. But as they worked through their starters they realised that one of the new waiting staff was staring at them to the point where it was starting to make Sherlock uncomfortable. John eventually sighed and threw down his napkin, preparing to rise and say something.

At that moment the young man made his way over, a bottle of Angelo's best wine in his hands and set it on the table with a shy smile, his eyes only on Sherlock. As realisation dawned John couldn't help but smile.

'We didn't order wine,' Sherlock snapped.

'This one is on me,' the man answered and with another swift smile he ducked his head and retreated back to the realtive safety of the bar.

Sherlock frowned at the wine and then at John, who was laughing quietly into his hand.

'I don't see what is so funny,' Sherlock shook his hair to hide more of his face, a habit that had developed over the last few months and that John hated, 'His mother should have taught it's rude to-'

'He was flirting with you.'

The silence at the table seemed to drag on for far too long, until eventually Sherlock blinked and glanced over at the waiter who had flushed pink and kept looking over every couple of seconds.

'Why?'

John's heart broke.

'Because you're gorgeous.'

He tried not to notice the way Sherlock's gaze flickered down to his ruined hands, or the way he turned slightly away to hide the burn scars on the side of his face. And then John did something he'd never done in public before. He reached forward and pushed Sherlock's hair back, smiling softly and feeling slightly smug about the disapointed look the young waiter gave them when he John took Sherlock's hand and kissed the very tips of his fingers.

'But he's just shit out of luck, isn't he?'

Sherlock stared at John for a long moment, and then he dropped his gaze back to his plate, but there was nothing he could have done to hide the very small smile that flashed across his face just for a second.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay - life happened

It was the first week of April when John found the leaflets stuffed into the bottom drawer of the kitchen which usually only held takeaway menus and the random detritus of life. But since he lived with Sherlock he was always a bit cautious about this drawer because that detritus could be an unusual looking stone or it could be a decomposing spleen.

As he flicked through them he slid down the counter and sank to the kitchen floor. Which is where Sherlock found him an hour later.

The detective stopped in the door, his eyes widening, and his body tensed for flight when John didn't look up. But the army doctor was used to dealing with Sherlock and he spoke quietly so as not to spook him into running, because God knows John could search the whole of London and never find the detective if he chose to go to ground.

'Is this what you want?' he asked, keeping his voice soft, non judgmental.

'Mummy keep sending them, or getting doctors to email me. One even came to the door.'

'And what did you do to him?'

'Nothing that would get me arrested.'

Despite the seriousness of what John held in his hands, he couldn't resist a smile. But then the gravity piled in again and he sighed.

'Surgery?' he felt more than saw Sherlock shift slightly. He flicked through the leaflets ones by one, 'Skin grafts, laser treatment...' when Sherlock didn't respond John sighed and finally looked up at him, 'Talk to me. Because I don't understand.'

At the old, often used line, Sherlock's expression softened a little, but it was nowhere close to a smile.

'Mummy said...' Sherlock began and then stopped.

'What did she say, Sherlock?'

There was a long pause before the detective spoke, 'You don't want to be embarrassed by me.'

John's heart sank and he closed his eyes, 'I'm not.'

'But you said it was embarrassing to be in public with me.'

'When? I never-'

'February 12th.'

'...what?'

'We were at British Museum and you stormed off saying I was...I was a...bloody embarrassment.'

And just like that John remembered the day well.

'The day you made a whole bus load of school children cry?' he asked, 'The same day that you made the chief curator throw,  _throw,_ two thousand year old plate at you before he trashed his office and quit his job?'

'Yes.'

'I'm not embarrassed to be seen with you. I shouldn't have said that, it wasn't what I meant.'

There was another sensation of movement, the light changing as Sherlock shifted his balance, 'Well what did you mean?'

'I meant that a grown man shouldn't be making kids cry.'

'...and the curator?'

John bit his lip before answering, 'No. That I have to admit was funny.'

There was silence and John could tell that Sherlock was thinking this through, so he spoke again.

'But none of that was different to anything I've told you since we met. So why...what else did she day?' he asked with sudden dread.

Silence.

'Sherlock.'

'That is wasn't fair to expect you to feel obligated to stay here with someone who was...someone like me.'

'Sherlock, people have been saying that about us for years. Trust me, it has nothing at all to do with how you look.'

'I can't even hold a damn cup!' it was so rare that Sherlock shouted that John lifted his head again.

'These surgeries won't fix that Sherlock.' and then because he knew what Sherlock really meant he sighed softly, 'It won't bring back the violin.'

'I know that, John!' Sherlock snapped, 'I'm not an idiot.'

'And you know that I love you...you do know that, right?'

Sherlock nodded.

'Just as you are. Sarcastic, inappropriate...gorgeous.'

Sherlock swallowed and then nodded.

'And do you love me?'

Another nod.

'Just as I am. Would you change me?'

Sherlock shook his head this time, '...you do have some rather questionable tastes in-'

'I swear to God if you destroy one more of jumpers you will be sleeping on the sofa.'

And at that Sherlock flashed a smile, a tiny one that lasted just a split second.

John held up the leaflets, 'So I can throw these in the bin?'

Sherlock considered this for a long time, and then the slightest incline of his head that eased the tension in the room.

'Good,' John said, 'But it's best your mother stays away for a while because there's a very good chance I might chin her.'

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and it's done

A year passed. One month sliding into another, subtle changes in the seasons only highlighting the changes in their relationship.

Lestrade moved out of his small flat and into Mycroft's townhouse. Mummy was hinting at a summer wedding but for now the politician and the policeman seemed content to just be with each other as much as possible.

Life in Baker Street carried on more or less as it had done before. Sherlock made a mess, John shouted about it, and they both ate more takeaway than was really healthy for a human being.

John spent his evenings reading cheesy crime novels while Sherlock devoured the latest scientific journals and blew things up in the microwave.

And at night John climbed into bed beside him, kissed him gently and wrapped himself around Sherlock.

They weren't cute and sweet and full of soft words and expressions of devotion. Theirs was a practical love. A love that realised dishes still needed to be washed and vacuuming still needed to be done. It was a love that made a rota for cleaning the bathroom, which was promptly ignored. A love that had no concept of personal space or alone time. A love that would see one party follow the other through wind and rain and snow, across bridges and roof tops and into the most dangerous situations the human mind could construct.

And then they would stop for chips on the way home.

It was a love that didn't need vocal declarations to justify it or convince. 

It just was.

It started in that one instant. And now it was all that was coming after.


End file.
